


these little pests, they never go away

by girlsarewolves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - TV, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So much for 'victory.' He's still surrounded by gnats. Set during 2x01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these little pests, they never go away

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless use of a line from ACOK (I like the line about gnats, I'm sorry). Prompted fic, the request was for 'Sandor's thoughts during 2x01 after the tourney.' Feedback appreciated!

* * *

It doesn't matter much when Joffrey compliments his 'victory.' Not much victory to be found when you're surrounded by gnats.  
  
He's a little banged up, but mostly he just feels hot and damp. The brightness of the afternoon takes a few minutes and a lot of blinking to re-adjust to after removing his helm. He quickly returns to his place behind Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella.  
  
(She's there at Joffrey's side. She's pale and tired; she's beautiful.)  
  
It doesn't phase him to see the Hollard idiot acting a fucking fool. He doesn't pay attention to the edge behind Joffrey's mocking generosity. He knows what's coming; nothing to be done. He never could abide Hollard anyway.  
  
(She's watching, his little bird. Watching, knowing something is wrong. She knows Joffrey is cruel; even now she isn't always prepared for it.)  
  
The feeling of a punch to his chest sounds like Sansa Stark's voice crying out, "You can't!" and for a moment everything freezes.  
  
( _Seven fucking hells._ )  
  
He can't move. He can't speak. He can look; eyes staring as his mind tries to find an excuse to speak for her defense. His body is rigid; for some reason he is acutely aware of how badly his left shoulder hurts, and the droplets of sweat running down his chest and back. Aware of the heat of the sun, the silence of those near Joffrey, the anxious shifting of Myrcella and Tommen.  
  
The way Sansa Stark is panicking and lying while her eyes are full of fear.  
  
('Say only what they want you to say, Little bird. Sing your courtesies and nothing more.')  
  
The girl is quick-witted; her recovery comes swiftly though it's flimsy. But she gives him an opening; a moment. She doesn't know it. She isn't expecting help. She's stopped looking for it these days.  
  
"The girl is right," he says. He does not even realize he is speaking already. The words come out. He thinks them up, his mind working out something that sounds more convincing. And the words simply come out.  
  
(And for a moment his eyes meet hers, and she stares at him. Mouth closed and jaw tight and her eyes are saying so many things that he can't grow too attached to.)  
  
It's a relief when Joffrey believes him.  
  
(She's speaking again. She's back on her feet. She's a clever, little bird. Her pretty words exactly the sort of thing Joffrey wants - and she bends him to her will. Clever, little bird.)  
  
He wants to look at her, but he won't. He exhales deeply and stands straight; not rigid. Until he hears that voice. Grating on his ears, on his nerves. His mouth twitches. He's hot and tired, and his 'victory' was a jape, and the little bird is only just now safe - and now that fucking voice.  
  
The Imp always walks and talks like he hasn't a care in the world, and later he mocks and taunts like no one else has it so hard as him. Always has. Always will.  
  
It doesn't matter when Tyrion Lannister mocks him. It really doesn't today.  
  
(But he puts her on the spot, the pretty, fragile bird, puts her on the spot in front of Joffrey. She has already struggled and been tested with Joffrey's displeasure today. She has already averted the danger - and the fucking Imp puts her on the spot.)  
  
Joffrey will be sulking the rest of his nameday, and Sandor can only hope the boy doesn't take the Imp's presence out on Sansa.  
  
So much for 'victory.' He's still surrounded by gnats.


End file.
